


i built a religion around you

by tenderthings



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But also, Explicit Sexual Content, Kissing, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Non-Explicit Sex, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5663926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderthings/pseuds/tenderthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and made it my mission<br/>to worship.</p><p>(in which i wrote a series of thirty-eight kissing prompts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. good morning. (alistair/warden)

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I'd like to point out that this list was inspired by a post I saw going around (linked on my tumblr post) that originally contained twenty-five prompts. I added to it and well...this happened. Thirty-eight kissing prompts for your shipping pleasure.
> 
> I'll possibly be doing a second collection of this that are open for request but for now, enjoy!

 

* * *

 

1.

 

He’s in no rush to get out of bed this morning.

These days, he rarely is. It’s a small mercy, really, but the thing about being king is that if your country can’t run itself once in a while, then well... you’re not doing a very good job, are you?

It took Alistair a few years to figure that out. It took him even longer to convince his wife of the same thing but she resisted— told him, with her lips pursed to fight back a grin as she wagged her finger at him, that one of them needed to remain vigilant. _Especially_ with Orlesian dignitaries visiting.

Even now, as the lazy reins of consciousness return to him, he can hear her fussing about.

It’s a perfect picture in his head:

The whispers of gray in her hair as she strings it up into a bun. Her nimble, aged fingers undoing the laces of her shift and the loose, silky material pooling at her feet. Her nude figure in front of the armoire as she ponders over her choice of attire this morning. The huff she gives in defeat and picks up his discarded shirt from the floor and slips it on.

When he finally opens his eyes, she is there, standing beside the bed with a slew of documents for him to look over and promptly ignore. As expected.

He hides his smile and sits up, stretching and grunting with the crack of bones.

The melodies of aging— He never thought to hear them.

She joins him on the bed, sitting by his side. He catches the way his shirt slides up those lovely thighs of hers.

“What do you think of this?” She takes a deep breath and puts on the voice she uses for ordering him and the country around.

“’Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven: It is with my deepest regrets to inform you that we will not be attending this winter’s ball due to unforeseen engagements in the south regarding blah blah, yada yada— Maker be with you and deepest regards, the King of Ferelden.’ With added hearts and kisses.”

He shuffles a little closer so he can wrap his arm around her waist and rest his chin on her shoulder. He stares at the document for a second, blinks, and realizes it’s too early to be reading anything at all.

“Less blah, more yada, I think.”

“But of course.” She makes a dutiful edit with her quill.

She turns her head to him and the look in her eye— a gentle blaze, sated by unending adoration— makes him all fluttery inside. He feels it still, and near-constant. Once it was overwhelming. Now, it makes him whole.

“Good morning, your majesty.” She leans in and plants a quick kiss on his lips. “Sleep well?”

He hums and pouts his lips for another. She complies and he smiles against her mouth.

But just when he parts his mouth for more, it’s over and she’s getting onto her feet and out of his arms. He pouts again, slumping onto his stomach, and she giggles, smacking his hands away when he makes a grab for her thighs. She doesn’t move away, though, and he winds his hand around her thigh.

She crosses her arms and looks down at him while he looks up at her.

“You realize you can’t stay in bed all morning, don’t you?”

“And why not? It took us a good while to end the Blight— and we did. Eventually. Within the year. I think we can spare a few hours today.”

“Correction: I ended the Blight. I slew the archdemon. It’s why I am the Queen.”

“That’s was decided well before— you slew the archdemon to solidify your place as queen? _Oh_ that’s so sneaky.”

“I slew the archdemon because I knew you’d slip on your way to it.”

He tsks.“So cruel.”

All the while, Alistair has been inching his hand higher and higher up her leg, marveling in the texture of her skin beneath his fingertips. Still soft, still warm and firm in her age and he loves these thighs.

He loves them more when his head is between them.

But of course she notices and squeezes her thighs together, caging his hand in the best place possible. It’s somewhat painful.

“Alistair, please get up.”

“You know...” he drawls, staring at where blood flow to his fingers has been cut off, “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

She rolls her eyes and releases him. He lies limp on his stomach, arm dangling over the edge of the bed as she walks away, off to the baths.

But she pauses. And then glances back at him, from over her shoulder.

“Coming dear husband?” she says with an arch of her brow.

The way his face lights up is absolutely childish and he’s up and out of bed like he’s twenty again. It’s a boon, too, that he’s extremely and completely naked already.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ open for requests!](elfapostate.tumblr.com)


	2. forehead. (fenris/hawke)

 

* * *

 

2.

 

Fenris called out to her again and again. Through the haze of blood and fire and steel clashing, the drums of war beat and his sword sunk into another body, cutting through metal and flesh. The soldier falls with a gasp, a snarl— such an ugly, pathetic sound. Fenris does not watch the light leave their eyes. He is already running.

At the far side of the market place, was the Champion— with her staff raised towards the sky, she thrust it down and with it, erupted a clatter of pure energy.

In one blinding wave of white light, the soldiers encircling her fell. He felt it too, mere feet away, in his very bones. An ache, resonates through him, burning into his heart but he pushes against the scorch while all others fall.

Now, they laid about her, bodies turned to charcoal and swizzling in the stuffy air of war and grime and death.

She gasps and heaves, and Fenris can see the blood pouring from her nose. Her face is marred; cuts and bruises from her ear to her neck, the satin of her breastplate a deeper crimson than before. Too much, too quickly but she did not stop. She raised her staff again, out and ready for the second wave and he was there, by her side.

She glanced to her left and a grin spread over her lips. Blood spotted her face— her own or another’s, he’s not sure. But he can see the paleness of her skin, the fatigue of her body.

His lyrium skin calls out to her own and finds her near-empty. It hurts.

He will never leave alone her again.

She drops her stance for a moment and reaches forward— clasping him by the shoulder and brings him close.

“Together,” she says.

“Together,” he says and she presses a kiss to his forehead.

Magic hums through with the touch and he feels alive. Sick and terrified but alive. Magic is not so terrible in her hands.

She laughs as a blaze bristles inside of her and he follows the fire with his fury.

 

 


	3. drunk. (isabela/hawke)

 

* * *

 

3.

 

“ _Maker_ , you’re an idiot.”

Hawke can’t stop laughing at her, all pink faced and clutching her belly as falls out of her chair and onto the floor. It only makes it worse, the lack of air really getting to her as she reaches the point of snorting and banging her fist against the floorboards. It wasn’t _that_ funny but Hawke is the sort to giggle at the moon when she’s drunk.

It’s somewhat... What’s the word? Ah yes. Adorable.

Isabela rolls her eyes, heaving an exhausted sigh, but it’s not long before she’s joining her too.

Hawke was always good at that. It was a talent of hers, getting Isabela to forget, even for one night so she could smile and laugh at anything or anyone, no matter how tense it might be between them. And Hawke, always a mess of person but never too far gone for a grin and bad pun and a bottle of rum.

Maker, she misses this. She misses everything, from before.

She misses those long nights spent with a bottle or five between them, good conversation never-ending and better wine always flowing under the low light of Hawke’s fireplace. The dog would sleep by their feet as the hours waned and Leandra would sneak in to bid them goodnight and kiss her daughter’s cheek before bed. The woman’s eyes gleam over Isabela, both in amusement and in warning, as she passed. Isabela took it for granted then— didn’t understand why or how the mother knew before either of them did. But she knew and those nights, they were heaven-sent and Isabela hadn’t realized it until it was empty.

No Hawke, no Leandra, no Carver or dog or Sandal or Bartrand. Just empty cupboards and a heartbroken Varric with a story to spin and a dying fire.

Now, the stirrings of Kirkwall’s night life have been replaced with the gentle rock of her (rather grand) Captain’s cabin on a silent, moonlit sea, far, far from where it all began.

It is almost as good. But only almost.

Isabela sits cross legged in her stolen throne and watched Hawke roll about until she could no longer breathe. She goes limp, limbs splayed out wide around her, and stares up at the ceiling.

There’s a mural of a naked woman riding a stallion engraved into the wood because of course there is.

Laughter soon too dies on Isabela’s lips and a sort of bittersweet melancholy seeks into her. She blames the rum. It sloshes, sheepishly, in her cup as she finds herself staring at it.

Hawke has fallen quiet and Isabela can’t help the words that spill from her lips.

“I could have really loved you, Hawke,” she mummers. “I hope you know that.”

Hawke’s breaths are heavy and slow. She counts them and bites her lips, and it’s a long moment before Hawke gathers herself up, on her hands and knees, and crawls to her.

Isabela arches a brow, half-smiling again, as Hawke rises onto her feet in front of her, using the arms of the gilded chair as leverage. She hovers over her, alcohol on her breath but eyes soft and loving, if a little sad.

“I don’t think so, Captain. We—.” She sways left and right. Isabela bites back another laugh and steadies Hawke with hands on her hips. “We, uh, wanted different things. And that is— that is only life. Timing was off. The Qunari invaded. And the Qunari, Maker help them, have terrible timing.”

They have discussed this. It is no longer a sore wound between them but the same could not be said for Kirkwall and those dead because of it, because of her.

Isabela opens her mouth to say something but she is quickly silenced with a kiss. It is short and sweet and Isabela fights down a giggle because she can feel Hawke’s smile against her lips. Hawke breaks iwith a snort, fumbles back, and slumps down onto Isabela’s bed.

“See?” Hawke says. “Still good. But a bad time.”

Isabela finds herself nodding before setting her goblet down and joining Hawke on the bed. She lies beside her and takes a hold of Hawke’s hand, dark skin messing with the rough fingers of a battle-worn mage.

They are silent again, but content and smiling, and flush and warm.

The sky is healed. The sea is gentle. The night is young. Hawke is breathing.

Isabela brings her hand up to her lips and kisses it, gently. She says, “You were always too good of a friend, Hawke.”

“And that is why you won’t be losing me as one.”

 

 


	4. awkward. (cassandra/inquisitor)

 

* * *

 

4.

 

Cassandra ~~Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena~~ Pentaghast is many things but she is never _clumsy_. There was a time, yes, when she was a blundering, fumbling fool of a girl but that was then and this is now. Besides— she has had enough dancing lessons to last her a lifetime.

There is no reason for her to revisit it.

But Josephine insists.

She states, with a cleverly masked threat and a smile a touch too pretty, that dancing is key to swaying Orlais in their favor, the Empress needing saving or not.

From where she stands, Josephine keeps an eye on the lesson like a hawk. Leliana, beside her, keeps a polite hand over her mouth to hide her laughter.

It’s turned into quite a show. Off- and on-duty men and women peak their heads in to catch a glimpse and find, of all people, Commander Cullen weaving through the hall with the lightest of feet. It’s remarkable, how he sways despite the grimace on his face and the tension in his steps.

He spins and dips and Cassandra is almost envious.

His dance partner, their Orlesian instructor with fine lips and a finer mustache, looks far too pleased with himself when he finally lets Cullen go. The commander bows before shuffling away, muttering something about “recruits” and “papers” before Josephine can get a word in.

Her heart sinks and her stomach does a leap when the man turns to her next and she’s sure there’s malice in that man’s eye as he opens his mouth. He calls for her— and the Inquisitor—to join him on the floor.

The latter jerks awake from his nap on his throne, looks at the man blankly, before sighing.

Josephine’s polite quip of “Inquisitor, please” gets him moving.

Cassandra is at the ready in the middle of the room while he takes his sweet time walking over, languid, heavy swagger and so on.

The teacher huffs and calls for the minstrels to begin. The Inquisitor takes one step back and bows, far too quickly and far too lazily to be appropriate in court, only to rise and slip back into her personal space.

He smells faintly of cinder and soap. Suddenly, the column of his throat and the dip of his scruff is very, very interesting to her.

She’s stiff, as ever, when the Inquisitor’s hand slips over her back, a tad lower than told. In his other, he clasps her hand and the heat of his palm is terribly distracting.

She sucks in a breath when he jerks her forward. And that is certainly not appropriate. Or is it? She’s not sure about Orlesian customs anymore. It’s much too hot in here for such complex thinking.

Meanwhile, he keeps the same, placid expression but Cassandra can see the way he bites down a grin.

The little shit— She will not blush for him.

And so the dance begins, minstrels playing a lovely melody that does nothing for her grace. She tries to follow the instructor’s lecture as best she can and she would not be her uncle’s niece if she did not know how to do the classic Orlesian waltz but the closeness and steady, sharp gaze of her partner had her near-tripping and stepping on his toes. Thankfully, the Inquisitor turns out be a magnificent dancer.

He guides more than drags her across the floor. Her steps smooth into an easier-two step at his lead and her grip on him loosens. Soon, they are swimming in tune with the flute player as she realizes that there is a kind of strategy to this.

Look in your partner’s eyes and no where else and you will do well.

And his eyes, they are rather lovely.

You cannot help but be taken in by them, deep and piercing as they are. She thinks of the sea and sees the wafting waves crashing against the ports of Cumberland, and the birds— cawing, at first irritating but melodic once she got a taste for salt water and danger and dragonfire. He dips and she goes but he catches her and brings her back like she hadn’t thought of falling entirely.

Then the song ends and the Inquisitor steps away from her. He bows again, as he is meant to, but does not let go of her hand.

She has no time to react before he brings her hand to his lips. Her bruised knuckles meet soft skin and the sea is far away again.

“Seeker Pentaghast,” he says, like the devil he was. He winks at her and folds his hands behind his back, grinning.

Her empty palm is overwhelming.

After a moment of mutual longing, Bull, off to the side, gives a little awkward cough. It snaps her from her reverie.

She nods and clears her throat. “Inquisitor,” she says without looking him in the eye but knows, that he is still grinning.

Maker damn him— Her cheeks are pink.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All you need to know about my René Trevelyan is that he is, as they say, a little shit.


	5. anger. (zevran/warden)

 

* * *

 

5.

 

She means to slip away in the night but for all her skills and merits, she could never outdo an assassin of the Crows.

She is far from surprised to find him there, sitting in the corner of her homely cabin aboard the ship. His daggers glint in greeting as she opens the door, its tip pressed to his forefinger as he spins it back and forth, back and forth.

The moonlight catches, blinding, and neither speak.

She shuts the door, locks it, and takes the time to light a candle.

Darkness fades and his expression is revealed to be a docile one.

Zevran is not a docile man

She drops her things on the bed and discards her jerkin and weapons. Then, she takes a deep breath and stands before him, arms pressed to her sides, a clear sign of defeat.

He looks up at her and his gaze shifts from idleness to cold, quiet rage.

She feels the flush of tears at her again, and the shame of it is nearly as cruel as the shame of her decision. When he notices the redness of her eyes, he softens a bit; he could never handle the sight of her crying, no matter how rare it was. It does nothing to ease his anger, however.

There is no lilt or mirth in his hushed tone as he speaks.

“What were you thinking?”

She sighs and crosses her arms. She can no longer meet his eye.

Outside the cabin window, the full moon’s mirror becomes still along the water’s surface and the city of Antiva remains oblivious to the approaching disaster.

Then she says, “I was thinking you were away and I’d be gone before light broke.”

“This is Antiva, mi amor. I have many eyes and many ears.”

He tilts his head to the side and something that could be mistaken for a smile forms across his face.

Time has been kinder to Zevran, his mouth, complimented by the deep laugh lines surrounding it. She, on the other hand, no longer recognizes herself as the bright, glorious savior of Ferelden and she fears neither does he.

The first signs of the Calling have taken root already.

Her body is a little thinner, her skin, paler, and her sleep, hounded more than ever before by the calls of the damned beasts that swarm below.

She is afraid— Creators, is she afraid.

When she says nothing, Zevran reaches out, carefully, and takes her hand, sheathing his dagger before doing so. He holds it loosely as he brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles, one after another, soft lips on rough skin.

She flinches, despite herself. The touch brings a pang of memories, too soon, too many, and she is once again reminded of how fickle life is.

When she does not pull away, he clasps her hand tighter, in a silent plea as he lowers his head— like a knight kneeling before his queen.

His voice shakes, broken.“Why must you leave me?”

She squeezes her eyes shut and ignores the knife at her throat.

“You know why.”

He is quiet for a long moment before he looks up at her again and his eyes, once lively and vibrant, have turned desperate— beautiful like the sea, but lonely like the moon.

Her breath hitches and she moves to pull away but he is up on his feet before she can, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her body to his, all in one breath.

He keeps her hand pressed between their chests, against his heart. His other arm, around her hips, holds her still. She means to fight him, means to fight this— tell him it’s the right thing to do but his mouth is on hers, silencing her pleas.

He kisses her with all he has— kisses her like it will be their last. Lips prodding, begging, as she whimpers and he holds her tighter, tight as he can but it’s like clutching onto the soul of a beast; nothing can tether it, only kill it and no god or man or demon could kill her. _He won’t allow it._

She leans up, fingers curling into his tunic and he sighs, open mouthed, and keeps kissing her until the ache in his chest eases and she is no longer trembling.

When they part, they are breathless and he shakes with how much he loves her, how much it hurts to think of her gone from him. His arms feel weak and his throat burns with unshed tears but for her, he will fall to his knees if he must, he will kill if she demands. He would do anything to stay by her side, no matter the state of the world.

Foreheads pressed together, his eyes slip open a fraction. She is crying silent tears as she curls into the warm cradle of his body.

“There is no where I will not go for you, mi amor,” he whispers. “You know this.”

“I do. I do. But— ”

“But nothing.” He kisses her again, quick and hard and it feels like pressing his dagger into the belly of a doe.

She melts in his hands all over again. When he pulls away, he continues as she blinks up at him, with dazed eyes.

“I know what it means to love you and I do so, willing and with my entire life. Be it by blade or poison, I will not allow anyone or anything happen to you. If you must face this, I will face it with you.

And she smiles.

No matter how sad or how broken it is, it is a smile, a thing Zevran has seen so little these past months.

“There is more at stake than just us, Zevran. What is happening— it must be stopped.”

“And I would never keep you from it. But I won’t let you do it alone, either.”

She stares at him, searching for words.

“I don’t want to die, Zevran. I never did.” The tears are back and her voice breaks mid-sentence with a choked sob. “I never wanted any of this.”

“I know,” he says. He cups her cheek and tilts her head up to look him in the eye when she tries to move away again. “Listen to me: I know. That is why I will go with you. This is one burden you don’t have to carry alone.”

“And if I fail? If I die, like I was always destined to? What then?”

“Then I will bring you home. I will bury you. And I will always love you.” He press his lips to her once again, softer than before, and the tenderness of it is what sows her back together. “Or,” he mummers against her mouth, “I will die by your side. Whichever comes first.”

She snaps back, eyes blown wide. But not angry. Never angry, when he’s grinning like that.

“You can’t say that, Zevran. That’s— you can’t.”

He tsks and caresses her cheek, catching another errant tear. “I swore an oath to serve and protect you with my life. Do you think that ended with the Blight?”

“Zevran...”

“Hush.” He presses a finger to her lips. “Accept this. I love you, my dear Warden, and your life, whatever the outcome, is the thing I cherish the most.”

She laughs, tearfully, before he kisses her again and again and again until she understands.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: edited this while listening to Vanessa Clarton's Liberman.


	6. i'm sorry. (fenris/hawke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to PTSD, anxiety, abuse, and recovery as well as some sexual content + nudity, as is my way.

 

* * *

 

6.

 

She wakes and expects to find her lover’s body splayed out beside her. Instead, there is only mussed red sheets, a lingering warmth, and the dying light of the fireplace drawing shapes in the dark.

It takes a moment of blank staring at the empty space for her mind to shake off sleep and the panic in her chest to ease. This has happened enough times that she knows not to worry— but the bitter reprisal of memories can’t be helped. It’s only been months; their relationship still feels new and Hawke is never as certain as she appears.

Slowly, she sits up and the blankets slip down to her naked hips. As expected, he is there, curled up at the foot of the bed, his bare back to her.

She wavers. Her eyes can’t help but follow the pattern, stark blue-white against dark flesh and she thinks of kissing them, if it would ease his suffering a bit. But she’s not that naive or young enough to be so, so she waits until he notices her.

After a long moment, he turns and meets her gentle gaze.

His voice is rough with sleep. “Did I wake you?”

She shakes her head, grinning a little.

“Ah.”

He heaves a slow breath and tense shoulders deflate a bit. He looks away again, to his hands and the etchings burnt into them.

Her grin softens and she shuffles forward, on her hands and knees, to him. She settles behind him, legs tucked beneath her and is careful not to touch him until he allows it. He does, falling back into her warmth without hesitation.

His skin is frighteningly hot but she has grown used to that— even loves it now, on terrible nights like these, when the naked feel of another can be a mercy for him.

She wraps one arm around his waist, her breasts pressing flush against his back, as her fingers wander to gently stroke his hip. She rests her forehead on his shoulder and counts his breathing — inhale, exhale —until she thinks it’s the right time to speak.

“Bad memory, or good?”

He takes in another long, slow breath, and she cherishes the pull and drop of his lungs— reminds her that he stayed, that he’s going to stay.

“I’m...not sure.”

She hums. “Would you like to talk about it?”

He pauses and says, “No, not right now.”

She rubs his back to know she understands without saying anything.  
  
Nights like these have grown fewer and fewer in-between but they still linger and he does awaken in the middle of the night, shaking and crying, too frantic to touch but needing words, needing something she’s still learning to give. And she has learned. Patience, more than anything, and she always will be so with him, but more importantly she’s learned when to talk, when to touch, and when to be quiet. And most of all, he’s learned to trust.

It is better to remain silent with open arms until the memory is no longer fresh in his mind and he is grounded again, steady breathing — in for seven, out for ten, like he has learned from her, like Carver had her do after father passed and she, her brother when Bethany died.

When his breathing turns easy, she clutches him a little tighter. “I’m sorry,” she whispers against his skin. She places a small kiss at the nape of his neck. He shivers, but in a good way.

“Is there anything I can do?” she says, lips brushing his skin when she speaks.

He turns around to study her and his eyes fall over the length of her body, from the curve of her neck to the shape of belly, and settles on the swell of her naked breasts, shameless before him. No— not, shameless but vulnerable and fearless. There is strength in this, oddly enough. Being naked together. He didn’t expect it.

His hand moves and his fingers run over the side of one breast, his thumb a breath away from her nipple before he cups her in full. Without another word, he leans in and kisses her.

She sighs against his mouth and wraps herself around him, legs spreading then winding around him as he pushes her onto her back.

Her fingers tangle in his hair and his lips find her throat and the gentle roll of his hips, hot and heavy inside of her, is the most gentlest peace they’ve ever known.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the Zevran piece have been my favorite so far but there's more to come.


	7. i've missed you. (dorian/inquisitor)

 

* * *

 

7.

 

In the dark, cloistered towers of a magister’s palace, the unnatural blue of the eluvian hums a never-ending song. Teasing him, perhaps, or laughing at the worry twisting inside. He feels its breath, as sweet and distant as his lover’s. It would be comforting except—

The tinge of ancient and dead magic and whispered things on his lips, in his skin. He has not walked the Crossroads but he can hear it, feel it. And it feels like _him_.

Old blood in the body of an aging man, held together by fine craftsmanship and a touch of fury.

It aches.

The mirror begins to part and sings, louder, and all those months of writing, waiting, wondering, feel like minutes, mere seconds, down to the moment Dorian said his goodbyes and the inquisitor marched on towards another purpose.

His hands stop shaking and he learns how to breathe again when the blue begins to morph into the figure of a man.

Another unbearable minute passes before he steps through, steps easy, lazy. And he is smiling—he is smiling in the way that Dorian has not forgotten, the way he does when there is a victory to be claimed.

All of the world feels lighter.

“You’re late,” he tsks.

The man shrugs and says, “Thedas is a busy place these days.”

Dorian doesn’t doubt it—he knows too well of the things beyond so he goes to him, as he should have, weeks ago—and in a few quick strides, he has him, pulling him close by the lapels of his coat until they are only an inch apart.

He sucks in a breath and Dorian can’t help his grin or keep his eyes from wandering down to the inquisitor’s lips.

“I’ve missed you,” Dorian says.

There is a moment, just a moment, of harsh metal against threading silk where this glorious, crusading leader of countries and armies fades and all that is left is a man with tired eyes and wrinkles around his mouth that weren’t there a few months ago.

“And I, you,” he whispers back.

Lips meet and the kiss is half-burning, half-ache and forever-yearning. Months of longing drain away, completely, and impatience takes its place. Dorian lets go of his coat, only to cup the man by the throat and dip him back so Dorian can kiss him harder, deeper.

When they part, his breath is heavy and the other man’s cheeks are flushed red, a noticeable bulge prodding Dorian’s thigh.

He chuckles and tugs him away from the mirror. It shuts, the light fading with a quiet wave of magic, and Dorian is already undressing his lover as quickly as he can.

“Come, amatus; I have a few things I want to show you.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, yes. A few of them, I think, you will like.”

 

 


	8. seduction. (zevran/warden)

 

* * *

 

8.

 

The crown is no heavier than its duties but it suits her—the position of Warden-Commander. The world is restless and she is adamant to let it sleep. It is no easy feat, being who and what she is and more, and he would not sway her from her calling but he would, if allowed, give her pause. If only for the night.

When all is quiet at the Keep and the guards are on rotation, he slips into her study. As expected, he finds her hunched over her desk, wearing only her night-gown in lieu of actually coming to bed. Candlelight down to a stub and inkwell empty, the fireplace has long since died but she doesn’t seem to notice. In the near dark, he can see her narrowed eyes (he’s told her a dozen times that she will ruin her eyes like that but no, no she is one of the Dalish—“How dare you, Zevran, honestly.”) and pinched lips as she reads over another document, followed by another, and another, shuffling them into a pile off to the side as she sighs.

From the corner of her eye, she notices his approach but says nothing. He often comes to chide her to bed, to no avail. His soft steps are, in truth, a comfort. She forgets herself these days.

But when he slips in behind her and his hands come to rest on her shoulders, fingers beginning to press, gently, into her skin, the game is up.

Her voice is tired. “Zevran, please. I have requisition reports to get through by morning and no time to read them.”

He tsks but says nothing. Instead, he continues to knead at pesky, tight joints and taut shoulders. Her body has become a tangle of knots and with very little time for sparring and not enough hours in the evening for rest, it’s no wonder she’s as tense as she is. It doesn’t take much, however, for a quiet moan to slip free. He grins; it’s good to hear that his talents are still of use.

He works at her neck for a bit, where the tension is worse due to her newest habit of never sitting down. Thumbs and forefingers work in, undoing the tension set there and she groans then sighs as he fixes a particularly stubborn bit of muscles. A soft smile appears on her lips when he steps in closer, his front brushing against her back, to set a careful kiss at the nape of her neck.

Then, he pushes the straps of her gown down until her upper arms are bare to him. The neckline is stretched along her bust now, nipples pebbling against the material and she doesn’t seem to mind as he presses another gentle kiss to her neck, just below her ear as she shivers.

His fingers drift, back to her shoulders, and she leans against him on instinct. The closeness helps but barely because he can’t get at her lower back and when he tries to move away, she goes stiff again. Her eyes, having slipped closed, snap open.

He doesn’t stop, however, lips and fingers insistent.

She hisses his name again and it’s much like the whine of a pup, needy and cute. The blush fanning her cheeks spreads down to her neck when she realizes how she sounds and his grin widens at that.

“For goodness’ sake, Zevran, I don’t have to time to—Damage reports, reconstruction plans, and a slew of invoices from Ali— _oh_.”

His lips return and trail, lower and lower, to where her shoulder and neck meet, to press a lingering, teasing kiss there. He loves that spot. She has so many like them, and he’s spent many hours revisiting them every night he can, only to come back to that sensitive spot. It is the perfect place to focus on when his cock is deep inside her and her body is clinging to him. He likes to sink his teeth in, right there, just when she reaches her peak, only to be pulled away from it, his tongue lavishing her skin, hot and greedy breathing fractured into whines and pleas and threats.

She hates and loves him for it.

But her resolve is fading and the quill in her hand has fallen. There is an ink blotch across the paper she’s yet to notice.

“But the reports...”

“Leave them,” he mummers against her skin. One hand wanders to follow the length and jut of her collarbones, an echo of lazy strokes and whispered promises.

With each heavy breath she takes, he can see the swell of her breasts pulling at the ties of the gown, and the shade of her nipples, dark against the thread-bare linen. He chuckles and drags his lips, mouth slightly parted, up her neck and to her ear.

He breathes in the scent of her hair—a hint of pine, a hint of earth, forever attached to her being—before whispering, as his hand slips down her front, “They can wait. The whole of Ferelden is asleep, so why not take advantage of the night?”

“Zevran.” Her voice is breathy, raspy, then cut off with a soft exhale as the tips of his fingers brush over a nipple through the gown.

“Even Wardens need to sleep. But more importantly, Wardens need other things too.”

Then, he tilts her head around and presses his mouth to hers. She leans into the kiss, lips parting and he squeezes her breast as a “thank you”. She whimpers, again.

He pulls his lips away but his hands are at her shoulders again,kneading.

She hums. “Other things? Like what?”

Ah, he thinks, _there she is_.

“Like that. And this.”

He kicks the nearby chair away and turns her to face him. It makes such a loud, rude sound, that she giggles in surprise and he winks at her before kissing her soundly, both of his hands palming her breasts and squeezing.

He pulls away and nips at her bottom lip.

“Also this.”

He tugs the gown down, a notable tear ringing in the air and she gasps—“Zevran!”—and it lies, ruined, around her waist. He hauls her up to set her on the desk and thrusts her legs apart, warm, wide hands on shaky knees, before stepping in between them and keeping her open.

He bends down, mouth at her breasts in seconds.

He sucks, hungry, while one hand slides down and rubs at her cunt, a shred of material still in his way. But it doesn’t matter; she’s already wet and slick and gasping for more.

“Convinced?” he asks, gazing up at her as he begins to lower himself onto his knees.

Her back arches for him and she moans: “ _Yes_.”

 

 


	9. war's end. (cassandra/inquisitor, cassandra/varric)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatted in tribute to my "burn it, bury it, cherish it" series and featuring a nonbinary Inky. Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

9.

 

The story as it goes, will be a good one. The aftermath, as it was, is a touch bitter, a touch tragic but good enough. And so—

*

He immortalizes the moment the sun peaked through the broken skies, through the unholy green and swirling clouds. He honors its death, slow, then all at once. And the blue—it was blinding if beautiful.

It grew and it grew until all that was left was a clean slate and the proud mountain peaks.

What he doesn’t write about is the scent of magic and metal, the tinge of lingering corruption and the gash down his back. He doesn’t write that, as sweet as victory tasted, it was too good to be true for the first few breathless seconds. His heart pounded, his body ached, and Varric felt nothing but fear.  
Instead, he puts down the words: “If there was ever a time to believe in the Maker, it was then.”

*

The soldiers dropped their charges and followed the smoke up to the ruins where a would-be god broke the world once again and died for it. They found, standing atop the rubble, the Inquisitor and their companions. Battle worn and half-alive, but alive.

(He doesn’t write about looking to his left and seeing the Seeker, grime and splashes of blood coating her face and her eyes brimming with tears—how he thinks “Oh” as he stares at her profile and realizes one too many things too quickly.)

Varric praises the Maker again, her voice in his head when he writes how glorious the moment was, how final it felt to see the sun again.

(The sunlight settled gently on her face but the world still smelt of fire and ash.)

She took one step from her men and then another, before breaking into a sprint. At the sight of her pushing through the crowd, the Inquisitor threw off their helmet and tossed their sword aside and scaled down the ruins and down to her.

(In truth, they limped. In truth, they still limp. Varric’s caught the splinter in their step that could never be set right as did everyone else. Out of respect, he keeps that to himself. Out of respect, he likes to pretend he’s still whole too.)

The crowd and him waited for the moment with bated breath— Proof of reality, that is the story’s end. What they got was a kiss.

He says Cassandra jumped into their arms and the Inquisitor caught her, kissed every inch of her beautiful face, and laughed and cried and laughed some more.

When she was settled back onto her feet, they took one look at each other before, in true hero fashion, the Inquisitor dipped her and kissed her, madly, desperately.

A roar of cheers and clapping broke out as relief washed over and peace settled into him.

He didn’t think of bodies, he didn’t think of dead friends. They were alive and it was over. A grand finale to this terrible, bleak war.

*

—It went like this:

Cassandra’s steps were slow towards the end, tentative. Disbelieving is the better word, but he won’t pretend to know what she felt in that moment. The crowd moved aside for her.

She reached them before they, her. Blood streamed from the Inquisitor’s brow and there was no smile across their face, only a broken, weary look in their eyes that seemed nothing like courage. She reached out a hand, slowly and carefully, and cupped the ruined side of their face.

A scar has settled where her palm was and it is ugly, crude, and a reminder that the Inquisitor was once young too.

There was no kiss fit for a hero’s tale.

Instead, she pulled them close, arms wrapping tight around them and their head, buried into her neck. She clung to them while their hands grasped at her waist, fingers too broken to hold on to her so they were settled there, above her hips.

(It looked more like defeat than victory but relief has a habit of doing so.)

She pulled away to hold their face in her hands. And she stared, and watched, and, perhaps, prayed as she whispered something. The words came long and quiet until a small smile broke across the Inquisitor’s face as they whispered something back and Cassandra laughed, breathy and tired, and pressed her lips to theirs in the tenderest of ways.

The cheering only began when they walked away together, hand-in-hand. The crowd parted for them, clapping and praising and invoking Andraste’s name rather than the Inquisitor’s true one. Neither noticed nor cared as Cassandra shouldered their weight and the sword used to kill Corypheaus laid, forgotten, atop the ruins. It has become a monument now, unlike the pain and toil that it took for it to fall there. That lives on in the mind.

Varric will not say the ending he writes is the one people want to hear, but it seems, as the Seeker reads his draft, that it could be the one everyone wants to remember.

A heavy blush blossomed across her cheeks before she gets to the end. He’s already chuckling, too deep in his cups to be really surprised by the sight, and she huffs. She drops the papers, still wet with ink, and looks him dead in the eye.

She stumbles. “That was—that was...”

He raises his brow, biting back another smile, and took another sip of his wine.

The merriment of victory had yet to end for the night and Varric thought it would be the perfect time to give the Seeker her gift: A personalized, unedited version of the novel he’s not drunk enough to say is good but, well, anything for his friends.

“Best I’ve ever written?”

She glares at him but it falls short. He laughs harder and it’s covered up by the sound of Bull and his Chargers cheering as the Inquisitor limped up on a table and began to wiggle in a way one could call dancing.

Cassandra turns at the sound and, he thinks, the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs is one thing he should’ve put in.

“Well. Perhaps,” she says without looking at Varric.

Behind them, the Inquisitor blows a kiss to Cassandra which she promptly ignores, turning back to Varric.

“Nothing wrong with a little added excitement in your own personalized story, hm?”

Her smile drops and this might be the second time he’s ever seen her surprised for a good reason. “Personalized?”

“It’s a draft, Seeker, one of many. Probably. But this one I suited more to your tastes than anyone else’s.”

The gentle look of her face has yet to fade and Varric has no desire to pretend it was for him.

“Thank you, Varric,” she says and picks up the papers and folds them, neatly, away into a pant pocket.

“No worries, Cassandra. Enjoy it.”

He holds his tankard up to her and winks as she departs to pull their illustrious leader’s pants back up. He watches her go with a wistful sort of grin he keeps out of the epilogue, too.

 

 


	10. goodbye. (sebastian/hawke)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU in which Hawke becomes and stays on as Viscount.

 

* * *

 

10.

 

“I cannot be your wife, Sebastian.”

The prince looks away. Around them, the garden is quiet, idyllic, and undisturbed by her words. A peaceful place, if perhaps a lie.

He requested the servants to set their lunch outside for the day, hoping to make the proper impression by bringing her to his family’s summer estate. And it was quite beautiful—that even she could not deny.

As one of the few places outside the gates of Starkhaven that remained unspoiled by political turmoil, he had hopes that Lady Hawke, Viscount of Kirkwall, would appreciate such a thing. The manor, built in the scheme of early Orlesian architecture, held its true beauty in its gardens. It was not very large—hubris, Sebastian had realized far too late, did no one any good—but it was bountiful. The loveliest and rarest of Free Marcher fauna grew here for both preservation’s sake and vanity. A tradition started by his great-great grandmother, the flowers had since over-taken the entire garden.

Hedges were intertwined with white blossoms, tipped with yellow and black spots. The high walls, that Sebastian must admit had always felt confining, had been conquered by ivy and vines, reaching as far as the rooftops of the manor. In every nook of the serene garden, the Maker’s beauty could be found—a small pocket of paradise.

Golden and marble statues of Andraste adorned the walls, carved and made into fountains, water pouring from Her hands and into a pool for the birds below. They sit in front of the grandest one the grounds had to offer. Andraste looked down at him now, with emotionless eyes, and he thinks himself the greatest fool the Maker had ever created.

He, briefly, fancied a future in which his wife would turn this place into a proper botanical garden. With a round belly and a ring on her finger, it was a very new fantasy to be sure but love, genuine romantic love, was lacking in both the days of his foolish youth and the cold, clandestine confines of the cloister.

He had learned and he had lived with Hawke.

Everyone fell in love with her, in one way or another. The day she became viscount, his heart swelled with pride and the future looked bright again.

He thought he might convince her today; he thought he might make history today.

Kirkwall and Starkhaven, united in an unbreakable alliance. A marriage, bound by respect and adoration.

She loved him. She told him, once, on the day she kissed his cheek and urged him to leave the Chantry. Not for her, of course; Hawke was never that selfish despite what some believed. But she wanted him to rise, to reclaim the throne, and set things right for his people.

“Do this, at least, for your family, Sebastian,” she had said. And he did. He did and now he wants to marry her, like the damn fool he was.

She sighs and takes another sip of her tea. She holds it in the correct fashion now, with her pink finger firmly against the cup.

“War is coming. You must know this.”

“Of course, I do, which is why—.”

“You don’t just want me to be your ally, you want me to be your wife. I can’t be that. I am the Viscount.” Then she adds, muttering into her cup, “Much to my great disdain.”

“There is no better person for the job than you, Hawke.”

She grins at that. He sees a hint of laughter lines and he longs for the years to watch them deepen, become so fine that they are always there, even when she is not smiling.

Then she puts the cup down and the smile is gone. Her eyes on her fingers as she twists the cup around in its saucer, timidly.

“Things aren’t so simple anymore. They never were, but now... Now our people come first. Once you and the others were all that mattered to me, but not anymore. I have to protect Kirkwall. I have to protect my home. I can’t give you this.”

He stares at her for a long moment, his lips shut tight. The wear and tear of leadership is apparent; she is not the Hawke he met, but the Champion she became. He loves both women, wholeheartedly, and that is why he wants this. Starkhaven will benefit too, yes, but it is an afterthought.

A bit of the young, foolish boy reappears in his love for Hawke, but so does the man who was ready to give his life to the Maker. It is reverence for a mortal idol. (This is not lost on her.)

He reaches forward and takes a careful hold of her hand, causing her to become still. She meets his eyes again and the pain in hers is real as he speaks.

“One day, we will be man and wife. I promise you that.”

He lifts her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles, gently. A prayer is whispered into her roughened and ruined hand as he holds it there until he feels the prick of tears in his eyes so he shuts them tight. When she pulls away, he lets her go.

Then, she stands. She means to walk away then and there but she hesitates at his side.

He keeps his eyes shut when that same hand falls upon his shoulder.

“If only things could ever be that simple.”

She bends down and kisses his cheek.

He listens to her footsteps against the grass and imagines the future he knows he should not desire.

Hubris, he thinks.

 

 


End file.
